


The Ebbing Flow of the Hours

by Fyliwion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 20 years later, Case Fic, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Morning After, Professor John, Retirementlock, Sexual Content, Smut, Snogging, Spies, Story: His Last Bow, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but again not really, but not really, goatee, sherlock in disguise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3569912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time goes by and certain things never change. Sherlock leaves for months and years at a on cases, and John realizes how much time they've both wasted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ebbing Flow of the Hours

“The primary difficulty in any field work concerning medicine is the scale of the injuries you will be dealing with. I've known a good number of excellent doctor who could never stomach the types of wounds and deaths you'll examine. I always recommend spending time in the morgue, familiarizing yourself, and examining some of the worse cases. Nothing can prepare you entirely, and god knows you're still likely vomit on your first crime scene, but it will help you the best you can. Any questions?”

There was a tapping of keys and quick scratching of pencils across paper. A few hands flew up into the air, followed by general questions:

First experience with violent death?

Unpleasant and still surprisingly clear as it was forty years back.

Differences in battlefield and crime work?  

Sometimes very little.

Had officially retired?

No comment. 

“What about Sherlock Holmes?”

John lifted up his head searching the person's face in the sea of students. Inevitably the question arose in every lecture he offered.

The young woman who had asked was probably barely able to walk when the two of them first met.

“He's doing his... own thing,” the excuse fell poorly from John’s tongue.

“I heard he's retired as well,” spoke up a boy from the other end just as a girl in the second row offered, “Is it true he's working in the States?”

John felt his fists tighten, “I am afraid I couldn't tell you. If you wish for the inner workings of the mind of Sherlock Holmes I would advise reaching out to him to do so. Now who has a questions to the actual subject matter at hand?” 

Years. Longer now than during those awful twenty-six months he'd believed him to be dead. Emails, occasional phone calls at two in the morning, and once more being left behind for an unspoken mission he had no part in. 

Too old, too tired, too respectable to tag along on the coat tails of the madcap detective on whatever foolhardy task he'd taken up this time.

 “Doctor Watson?”

 He glanced up, his thoughts running off without him.

God, he could barely manage to hold a proper lecture. How could he travel the world to chase criminals, when these days he could barely get out of bed without his bones creaking? 

“One last question,” a voice came from the back of the room, floating over the head of the students and commanding silence with it. “Can we be expecting your next book within the year?” 

“Yes. The expected release date is around-” 

John froze. 

There was a shuffle of murmurs, and voices. Heads were turning towards the substantially older man who had taken up residence in the last row. He was stretched out, long legs in front of him and fingers pencilled on the desk. He had an appalling goatee, dark and streaked with grey like his hair, and he was wearing a slightly dated suit, but easily the cost of most of the students' entire wardrobes.

Blue eyes, hidden behind small framed glasses, laughed with a light John could register across the room. 

John's lips turned up immediately. “Christmas.” He clapped his hands and began walking across the room, “And with that, everyone is dismissed. Thank you for your time, you have my email if there are further questions.” 

He ignored the student’s murmurs of discontent. He ignored the fact he was suppose to be lecturing for at least another quarter of an hour. Instead John bolted up the aisle after the man to catch his arm before he could go. 

“Don’t you dare.Don't think for a single second I'm letting you out of my sight,” he said sharply, dragging him out of the way of the students.

“I had no intentions of doing so John, I simply did not wish for any of your enlightened students to make the connection and find myself bombarded with unpleasant questions.”

 They found themselves in the empty office around the room from the lecture hall and John slammed the door shut.

“Not my students. Would serve you right though. What the hell are you doing showing up in my lecture like that!? Four years Sherlock. Four! You said you'd be gone tops a year, maybe another six months if things went ‘askew’ I believe was the word you used.”

“Don't exaggerate, it was barely over three. As to why? I am afraid I underestimated the Americans.”

“Oh did you?”

“And the Russians. Although they were far less problematic than the Americans working in tangent with them.”

Sherlock looked down at the man, eyes crinkling behind the frames, half a smile on his lips, “At least this time I called?”

John paused looking up at him, fingers still tight in a fist and he felt momentary horror that his eyes felt damp.

“Bloody hell, I should punch you for that.”

“I missed you as well.”

The laughter swelled out of them both, catching them until it left John in a chair and Sherlock leaning against the desk. Over three years and just then it might’ve been no more than a month.

Except these days the changes time wrought seemed to come quicker. Sherlock had grown older in the span he'd been gone. The grey was more prominent than John had first surmised, leaving long streaks through his still thick curls. The glasses were for more than just a disguise, Sherlock occasionally readjusting, or squinting to look at a new object that caught his attention. Lines had deepened around his mouth, furrowed his brow, and arranged themselves around his eyes and revealed his age.

John noticed he slightly favoured his right side as well, a matter he would discuss with him later.

But the most condemning feature was the thing.

 Once John caught his breath and grew calm enough that he no longer felt like decking the detective he addressed the monstrosity.

“Dear God, tell me that one wipes off as well?”

Sherlock touched his face, “What?” 

“That.” 

Sherlock scowled. 

“That thing-” John felt a grin slip over his face. 

“It's a beard John.” 

“That may be many things Sherlock, but it's not a beard. You're not keeping it are you?” 

“I look distinguished.” 

John's eyebrows shot up. 

“I do.” 

“Mmm. Wouldn't be so sure about that.” 

“Yes well. I have to finish up this case, until then my beard isn't up for discussion.” 

“Your beard. By no means feel obligated. Just curious if you're...keeping it.” 

Another conversation, another return, a lifetime ago. 

Sherlock sniffed, giving him a look over his glasses and cinched the idea that Sherlock Holmes should never be allowed glasses. Apparently it was possible to make the detective more condescending. 

“I didn't come here to discuss my disguise. On the contrary, I'd rather hoped you might be inclined to join me.” 

Which was not something he had expected. 

“What?” 

“Come with me.  On the case.”

John looked up from the chair trying to see if Sherlock was making fun or simply being polite.

“If convenient.” 

Sherlock was never 'polite' and his expression was utterly sincere. 

“I'm not very useful on a case these days, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock snorted, “Don't be ridiculous. I can always use you on a case; you haven't become an old man in four years, whatever you may think. Yes, you may have a bit more grey, for that matter so have I as you’ve been staring at it for the past hour. Those absurdly young students may make you feel ancient, but there is something to be said for experience.” 

“Oh?”

“And I find myself rather lost without my blogger.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Never. Ever. Use that accent again.”

“It is what it is. Stop it already bud.” 

Sherlock's lip twitched in amusement at John’s reaction to his reply.

John was rather certain if Sherlock kept the twang his earlier consideration in punching would return and follow through. 

“Sherlock it's atrocious. You can't tell me you were over there for four years and they believed you.” 

“Borkov and his affiliates had little trouble believing me. The sheer number of dialects in the continental United States makes it rather difficult to pinpoint precise accents. I choose midwestern with a slight southern drawl. The lilt assisted with-.” 

“I really don't care if you taught a course on the subject at Cambridge. It sounds really bloody awful.” 

That said the case had been fascinating. Sherlock had filled him in on the finer details he had never felt safe in sharing over the longer distance. The entire thing played out precisely like an elaborate James Bond screenplay, complete with the cold war villains. 

Russians had been stealing British and American secrets Years worth of networks that were nearly as convoluted as Moriarty, and all trying to lead to some new weapon that might plunge Europe into a third world war. Sherlock undercover, so deeply that his new persona had completely melded with a real one, and taking on a role that John felt fit a spy thriller far better than real life. 

It reeked of Mycroft, but John had to admit he felt a pang he couldn't have been involved sooner. 

Although John had been the one to apprehend the spy by knocking him out with the man's own vodka bottle. The information was taken in before it was handed over to the mediator, and they had celebrated with the still intact Vodka while waiting for the clean up crew. 

There was only one matter that still tugged at John. “I still can't believe you had Mrs. Hudson in on it before me.” 

“John you are far too recognizable, and Borkov was looking specifically for a female housekeeper. It was a boon that he was looking for one at all, given I needed a pair of eyes and ears on the inside. Initially he prefered a young woman to oogle, but Mrs. Hudson's cooking and demeanor reminded him enough of his baba that he found it impossible to turn her down, which I knew he would of course.” 

“She's over eighty!” 

“She was more than happy for a bit of excitement. I might also remind you she has experience with these sorts of situations. She was never in any danger John. He stole state secrets, but he wasn’t about to murder an old woman.” 

John groaned. 

Twenty years after their first meeting, and there they were still sitting in Angelo's (owned by his son now). 

Still in the same window, a few more lines on their faces and a few more glasses of wine, and the cases still as absurd as the first one.

“So, where are you staying now that your back?”

John felt a surge of satisfaction at the startled look on the detective's face.

“I had presumed-”

"Presumed? Whose to say I don't have a housemate? Last time you left like this I ended up with a wife. Might have two of them upstairs at this point.

”Sherlock was not amused.

"Mrs. Hudson would have told me if you-”

 John grinned. 

“Joking Sherlock. It's a joke. I daresay if I’d even tried to marry again it would’ve been the only way to get you back here at all. Of course you're moving back in; your stuff hasn't even been touched for that matter. Well-- except the fermenting brain matter but you already knew about that.” 

“Oh,” the expression on Sherlock’s face was unreadable, which troubled John. 

“Really Sherlock. Your room’s still perfectly made, and only fair given you were still paying rent even if I told you not to. It’s been too quiet with you gone.” 

“Of course,” but this time his smile didn’t reach the detective’s eyes. 

* * *

 

The streets were empty as they walked towards 221B. They were on the doorstep when John turned laughing.

“Let me ask just one question,” he said looking up at the detective turned spy.

“Are you really going to keep that?”

Sherlock popped the collar on his coat and glared down in a dare “Why shouldn't I?”

John let his hand linger, catching Sherlock's cheek. He could let it go now, he could pull back and they could continue the rest of their lives as they had before.

Only he’d sworn he'd never lose him again. Somewhere in another long stint of years he’d realized he’d rather risk it all, then lose him for good and never know the answer at all.

The kiss lasted for only a moment. It was chaste, unheated, and Sherlock stood there as though unsure precisely what he was suppose to do. Indeed, Sherlock's eyes were wide and he was looking at John like the man had grown a second head

“I really prefer my lovers clean shaven."

Sherlock’s eyes widened further and he took the opportunity to kiss him again. This time he took his time, catching the detective’s lips and nudging them open under his tongue. Wine and pasta and a faint hint of smoke- of course he’d taken up smoking again, but then what spy story wasn’t complete without them?

When he broke away this time he caught Sherlock’s cheek. 

“I can't do this again. I can't have you run off on some harebrained adventure without me, not knowing if I'll ever see you again, and wonder what it means.” His voice caught in his throat and it was all he could to keep his hand from from trembling. 

“God. I should've done that years ago but first there was Mary and then-” 

John was cut off as two hands pushed him back against the door and he found his lips covered once more. This time there was little chaste about it, on the contrary his mouth was all but plundered as he felt himself flush against the door with Sherlock against him. The bristles of the beard tickled his upper lip and he could all but hear the pounding of the other man's heart against his own chest. Like a teenager he allowed himself to be wrapped up by the other man who kept him cornered as his lips continued to seek his, and then escaped to brush his cheek, neck, ear. Exploring and seeking before finding John’s mouth again and catching his tongue with his, tasting and touching with tentative flicks.

 

“Christ,” managed John when they came up for breath. 

“Indeed.” 

Sherlock's forehead brushed his own and they both fought to find their voice. Neither of them were as young as they use to be, it had been a long day, but- 

“If you don't pull me inside and take those things off I'll disrobe you on our stoop and damned be indecency charges.” 

Sherlock’s fingers had already been tugging at his fly it would seem. 

“Lestrade's retired.” 

“All the better.” 

John fumbled for the door, pushing it open, and pouring them both inside. For the first time in years the stairs were gratuitously abused, and they were both thankful that not all of Mrs. Hudson's loss of hearing was feigned these days. 

By the time they were inside and John had him pinned to the couch, and there was a distinct possibility Sherlock had lost a shirt in the stairwell.

He tugged at the the bottom of the goatee. 

“That thing has to go.” 

Sherlock twisted underneath him, “Later. Do it yourself if you like, for now finish undressing me.” 

John chuckled and gave it another tug, “I’ll put that on a tee shall I? You can wear it on our first case back. I shave for John Watson.” 

Sherlock’s smile was all teeth. 

“Mmm... John Hamish Watson?”

"Prat.” 

* * *

 

They never made it to the bed.

By the time they did finally fall into the sheets, naked and spent, with Sherlock wrapped around John like an overgrown cat they were both too exhausted to do much but bask in the other’s company.

It was the small hours just before daybreak. The sky was a dull grey, about to burst in a clear cool morning. The faint light had just begun to drift through the window and paint itself over the pallet their bodies provided.

“I'm considering retiring."

John’s fingers stopped their pattern from where they had been combing through the detective’s curls a moment before. He had thought the man asleep until the announcement. 

“Retiring?” 

“You'll remember I once mentioned  a cottage in sussex with beehives? I've the cottage now, so really it's simply a matter of when.” 

John felt his heart stop. 

“I rather thought we've the funds to allow both properties of course. I own the cottage, and it would be good to have a flat here in the city. Of course, you’d be added to the estate so should anything occur there would be no problems.  It will take some time to go through what we’d like to take with us, and what should stay in London. I imagine for now the time would be rather even, but perhaps in the next few years-” 

“We?” 

Sherlock looked down perplexed. 

“I should only be going if you’re keen on the idea as well.” 

John couldn’t think of a proper response to that, which left him with a different question entirely, “Bees?” 

“Fascinating creatures: a perfect example of biology and chemistry in one living organism. The sheer amount of experiments and cures that can be constructed with honey alone are innumerable.” 

The grey was breaking, and morning light had drifted over Sherlock’s face. 

“I think, John, I would like for a while to simply have you to myself, and I find London not quite the place it was when we first met.” 

Lectures at Barts. Technology neither of them cared for. A new neighbourhood barely recognizable to the Baker Street they had moved to so many years past. 

The Yard filled with strangers who looked at the pair of them with an awe reserved for ancients, not living men still looking for their next thrill. 

“I think I'd like that,” said John, leaning over to brush his cheek. “And god knows the time we have to make up for.” 

A cool wind from the east wrapped around them, and the sunlight slipped through the window to grant it's blessing with an early morning kiss.

“Yes John, I think it's long past we were on our way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely off of “Last Bow”. Mostly I wanted Sherlock in a goatee and I liked the idea of John travelling and giving lectures. Also having lived away for work and what not it's easier to understand how years can pass in a blink of an eye before you see your closest friend in person.  
>    
> Van Bork was turned into Volodin Barkov since current politics make far more sense that Russia would be dealing with spy rings in the US over Germany. And the end is unnecessarily sappy because I find Last Bow oddly sentimental. Also credit for the final line goes to ACD as it is a direct quote from “Last Bow” 
> 
> Mostly? Written because I really wanted a modern Silver Fox Sherlock wearing a terrible goatee.
> 
> Thank you **Eialyne** for being a lovely Beta.


End file.
